Nissan Rogue Review

2008 Nissan Rogue



By Michael Martineck

It probably seemed like a good idea at the time: introduce American car buyers to Nissan’s new cute ‘ute in an episode of NBC’s hit show Heroes. And so we see the Rogue in the hands of a world saving high school cheerleader– ensuring its chick-car status for all eternity. And then rogue crooks swipe the CUV and drive it to Mexico. Demonstrating what? The car is easy to boost? Why didn’t technopath Micah Sanders get a booster seat, take the wheel and show Ford the true meaning of “sync my ride?” All of which leaves me wondering: is the Rogue good enough to survive its own marketing?

From the looks of it, yes. Although the upward kinked rear window is a Murano cue without which I could do, the Rogue’s swoopy lines are generally as fresh as a pair of Puma sneakers. The height vs. width solution makes the vehicle look decidedly skinny from certain angles, but that may be part of the appeal (you can’t be too tall or too thin). And cheers to the designers for realizing nobody wants to see your spare tire.

The Rogue’s design loses coherence at the front. If the crossover’s grill actually made French fries at least they’d be an excuse. As it is, the monochromatic prow lacks a dramatic focal point or expression. To bad the varsity team from Infiniti didn’t do more coaching; their similarly proportioned EX has a far more appealing Cheshire cat grin.

The Rogue’s righteous cabin screams “give me a Z!” And so it does, cowled instruments, air vents and all. The Rogue’s minimalist collection of round, friendly gauges and sensibly designed and positioned controls create a handsome, business-like space that seems built for the long haul. The same can’t be said for the seats, whose comfort lacks highway compatibility. The base radio sports an Aux jack for iPoditude and delivers sound. (You’ll need to upgrade to BOSE for a flattering adjective.)

Nissan’s svelte utility vehicle has one engine option: a 2.5-liter four-cylinder engine. The powerplant’s 170 horses and 175 lb-ft of torque fit the demographic remit: not being slow and not sucking gas. Bonus! Floor it and the Rogue will charge-up on-ramps with growly, thrashy abandon. Around the corners, at speed, the Rogue should not go; the tires and chassis will tell you so. If you don’t listen, four-wheel anti-lock braking, Electronic Brake force Distribution, Vehicle Dynamic Control and Traction Control will remind you.

Nissan’s continuously variable transmission (CVT) is perfect for urban work, but a genuine pain on the highway, where the slightest throttle input sends the revs soaring or falling. The Rogue's CVT’s not as good as the best systems (usually married to larger engines) and not as bad as the worst. Opting for paddle shifters is like putting Peyton Manning in a pleated skirt and sweater; it’s not the right gear for the game.

By the same token, if you think Nissan’s [optional] Intuitive All-wheel Drive is designed for hard core off-roading, you’re wrong. But there are advantages…

The Rogue’s system uses all four wheels to get going, cruises in front wheel-drive, and engages the rear wheels in corners or slips. So you get torque steer-free starts, front-wheel drive economy, rear wheel drive handling in the corners, and all wheel-drive security. As the Rogue is neither sports car nor genuine mud plugger, it all adds up to extra prowess on wet and snowy roads.

That said, driving dynamics help set the Rogue apart from its formidable competition– emphasis on “help.” Just about every brand’s got one of these little cute utes– Toyota’s RAV-4 and Honda’s CRV are on their third-generation– and they all drive with ever-increasing "car-like" aplomb. Nissan’s blend of tech makes it the least rut-going of the top CUVs, but arguably the best on the boulevard. To stand out, though, the Rouge needs to, well, be a rogue. It’s not.

In terms of size, weight, engine output and gas mileage, the three CUVs cited above are virtually identical. The Rogue loses 15 cubic feet of cargo area due to its sleek lines. It does have The Mother of All Gloveboxes, and lots of clever cubbies for iPods, laptops and meal cards. The back has a very cool tray-size nook that, left open, separates pom-poms from Evian bottles from your backpack. And…?

The Nissan Rogue seems like it’s still in high school, trying to fit in, afraid to be really different. (You remember what happened to the deeply dorky Quest minivan?) The Rogue’s cuter than most of the other cute utes, but that’s a subjective judgment that doesn’t guarantee the model a seat at the CUV table. To be Nissan’s hero, the Rogue would have to exhibit some really extraordinary ability. That it doesn’t.

Nissan Altima Coupe Review

2008 Nissan Altima Coupe



By Megan Benoit

Nissan says the Altima Coupe was designed separately from the Altima sedan. It’s a different car, from the ground-up. Roger that. Not since the Chevrolet Lumina Sedan and Minivan have two more disparate vehicles shared the same name. While Chrysler’s auto show folk are talking-up the joys of a “shared genetic pool,” the Altima Coupe 3.5SE isn’t even swimming in the same ocean as the sedan. In fact, the Altima Coupe deserves a sexier name, something distinctive, with more panache. I suggest “Accord-killer,” but it’s unlikely to get approved by any legal department, anywhere.

A quick tour around the Altima Coupe reveals the missing link; Nissan took the 3.5SE to Infiniti and beyond. From the side, the two-door Altima is nearasdammit a dead ringer for the new G37. Sure, they changed the headlights and taillights, gave it dumpier base trim and hood strakes (and aren’t charging you an arm and a leg for it). But the DNA is there. Chrome milk moustache non-withstanding, the 3.5SE Altima Coupe is a whole lot of sexy. It’s every bit as hot looking as the new Accord Coupe is not, and a fair piece cheaper.

One sit behind the base 3.5SE’s wheel shows why this bad boy is a bargain basement bomber. The base SE comes with cloth seats and the most basic of pseudo-luxury accoutrements, including push-button engine start and stop and one of those nagging fuel economy gauges that tries to guilt you into punching the gas less. But there is nothing to dispel the notion that you’re in a souped-up economy car. Sure, the fancier options are there, but if your style is ‘shut up and drive,’ being able to forego leather seats and premium audio is a bonus.

Yes, the 3.5SE’s cabin is nicer than many of its Japanese rivals, but oy, the ergonomics. The shoulder bolsters were more than a tad overly-bolstered (and I’m not exactly a football player), the center armrest is ill-positioned and the entire interior had the most overpowering new car smell I’ve ever suffered.

But by far the worst offender: the system used to move the passenger seat forward so the few and the damned (damned few?) can enter the backseat. Nissan's placed the latch on the far side of the passenger seat, where only the driver can see and reach it, and only while they’re seated. Forcing the driver to move the seat is cruel and unusual punishment.

Engine on, and all is forgiven (for the driver anyway). In terms of sheer engine performance, Goldilocks couldn’t ask for a better whip. The 2.5S is too slow. The G37 is too expensive. In terms of horsepower to dollars to curb weight, the 3.5SE Coupe just nails it. Zero to sixty takes just 5.8 seconds. The high-revving, hefty Accord feels downright sluggish next to this beast. Astonishingly, the Altima has more torque and horsepower and better gas mileage.

No matter what you’re doing, prodding the gas is immensely, intensely and immediately satisfying. A cackle-worthy exhaust note would be the cherry on the icing on the cake. The 3.5SE's six-speed manual is better than Nissan’s standard fare, delivering unrestricted access to every last one of the 350SE Coupe’s 270 horses. If you start comparing it to better gearboxes… just offer a silent prayer that it’s not a CVT.

In terms of handling, the 3.5SE’s a front wheel-drive car. Push it and you’ll be "rewarded" by the gradual onset of understeer. Thankfully, tight proportions (a small wheelbase and a stubby rear) mean you never feel like the nose is trying to plow a path to scenery, or an angry god controls the tail end. It’s Goldilocks material again: smooth, safe and predictable.

Nissan has even managed to keep the torque steer demons at a distance, although uncomfortably numb steering is the regrettable result. Once you get used to the anesthetic helm, you can cane the 3.5SE like a pro– just don’t expect the sort of feedback you’d get from a car that really knows its way around a track.

The 3.5SE’s highway ride is comfortably quiet, with little wind noise and a moderate amount of tire roar. Around town, the 3.5SE’s suspension absorbs bumps and potholes with ease. Standard safety features won't win any awards; even stability control costs you extra. Stripper lover's alert: nearly everything is optional. The Altima is a blank slate with a fast engine, just waiting for you to customize with your choice of toys. Or not.

So the 3.5SE’s dead sexy, has the guts to match and starts at $24k. Not to put too fine a point on it, that’s the sort of price point that pisses in Subaru and Honda’s Wheaties. If you’re less than six feet tall, emo-thin and don’t need space for more than two, I can’t think of a car in its class that presents a better performance bargain.

Nissan Murano LE Review

2009 Nissan Murano



By Michael Martineck

Nissan claims the Murano was the first crossover. Subaru claims that "honor" for the Forester. I think the first crossover was probably some variant of the Model T. Ladder frame construction or no, I'm never exactly sure what constitutes a CUV or SUV. Besides, as most truck buyers neither tow nor venture off-road, it's what semanticists call an invidious distinction. In other words, who cares? The more important question is whether or not a particular vehicle has the looks, packaging and performance it needs to survive. The new Nissan Murano must, again, still, stand on its own merits. Does it?

For 2009, Nissan has re-mixed rather than reinvented the Murano. The next gen uni-body trucklet is the same size and basic shape as the previous version. Equally important, the new Murano's turned its back on the industry trend towards bloat; it's only slightly heavier than its predecessor. And despite its generous proportions, Nissan also resisted the urge to add some kind of flip-up rear cushion and claim seven-passenger status.

In terms of artistic expression, Nissan's started to stray. The "old" Murano had more than a few "challenging" design elements. The update takes all these style points and exaggerates them. Some of the mods work. The rear glass now bows out like an astronaut's helmet. The front hood bows in, dune buggy-style, creating sensual fenders. The rear hatch's looks are color dependent; it appears slim and svelte in black, puffy and plump in white.

On the downside, Nissan did nothing to ameliorate the Murano's triangular C-pillar/blind spot. Maybe they didn't see it. But no one will miss the Murano's new, Hannibal Lector-esque front fascia. Love it or hate it, I hate it. It strikes a major discordant note in an otherwise coherent design. The website proclaims "There's no such thing as too much style." Twenty-seven lights, boxes and chevrons say otherwise.

By the same token, the Murano's cabin suffers from what the music industry calls over-production. A superabundance of creases, nooks and grooves evokes 80's artists' visions of future airports. The vinyl-record-sized gauges light up inside and around the edges, screaming "look at me." The center console combines vertical controls with a horizontal mini-desk and an LCD monitor. Perhaps after you've read "Nissan Murano for Dummies" it'll all make sense. I never figured out how to redirect the heater's airflow.

The materials are first class though– especially if you opt for double-stitched leather. In fact, the LE serves as a showcase for Nissan's current cache of optional features: a headline grabbing dual-plane moon roof that covers both sets of seats, mood lighting that belongs in a loft-living bachelor's pad, a power lift gate and power-fold rear seats. The optional gizmology count is also high: a 9.3-gig music hard drive, Bluetooth and iPod connectivity and a key you can leave in your pants (or are you just happy to see me?).

Nissan's blessed their crossover's VQ-series V6 power plant with another 25 horses (up to 265hp), hitched-up to Nissan's second-generation Xtronic continuously variable transmission. There's significantly more in-gear urge underfoot, and the transmission no longer feels like a giant rubber band straining to stretch (thanks in part to the more powerful engine). Better yet: the Murano's fuel economy gains one EPA mpg in the city cycle (18/23).

Despite its newfound speed, the Altima-platformed Murano's feather-light steering and body float leave no doubt that corner carvers need to step up to (and stump up for) an Infiniti EX (better platform despite similar size), or consider Mazda's CX-9. The Murano LE's 20" wheels add grip and plenty o' bling, but make for a bouncy ride over big bumps. Shod with standard 18" footwear, I can well believe Nissan's claims for increased chassis rigidity and decreased noise. Listening to the beehive transmission proved the point; I had to strain to hear it, as opposed to work to ignore it.

To verify the Murano's cold weather capabilities, I tested the CUV in both virgin snow and pre-trampled cake. For comparison sake, I ran the course in a 2007 Murano and the fully loaded 2009 tester. While the differences between past and present Muranos are slim, the 2009 is the best choice for slippery stuff. It's superbly balanced and grabbed traction with almost disappointing (for hoons) alacrity.

The Nissan Murano hasn't been doing all that well in the sales charts lately. The company skipped the '08 model year; ‘07 sales were off six percent. With its upgraded engine and interior and raft of new options, the redesigned model is a safe bet to please the Murano's fan base. Strange to say, the big question is whether or not the new nose job will attract or repel style-conscious cross-shoppers. If so, the Murano will easily weather the hard times ahead. If not, not.

Nissan Armada LE 4×4 Review

By Mike Solowiow

Nissan wants you to buy the Armada LE 4×4 to "Live Big." Someone needs to tell these guys that conspicuous consumption is dead– at least for those car buyers who can no longer afford it. While the high and low ends of the SUV market are still relatively robust, big-ass trucks in the former "sweet spot" are giving potential buyers a toothache. It may have something to do with the price of gas. Or ruinous depreciation. Which is a shame. The Nissan Armada is a damn Skippy good truck; you know, if you used to like that kind of thing.

The Armada is a paid-up subscriber to the Japanese school of design. Small details rule. The rounded arches over the Armada's doors look cool. Hidden rear door handles get props. Now, take a step back… Another one… NOW you can see that those bulging fenders are more Mitsubishi Starion shazzam than Audi Quattro cool. Who the Hell would be fooled into thinking the Armada only has two doors? And yes, that Nissan emblem on the grill really IS the size of a dinner plate.

Taken as a whole, the Armada is a mish-mash of bulky truck clichés. I'm not saying it's derivative, but the Honda Pilot, Land Rover Discovery and Chevrolet Tahoe called. They want their everything back.

Climbing into the Armada's cabin, I got lost. Tom Tom says turn left at the center arm rest, another left at the climate control, and you will arrive at the steering wheel. Nissan has upgraded the SUV's cavernous interior to great effect. Acres of dash are covered in sensually squidgy plastics in pleasant desert hues. Buttons still litter the center stack layout like scattered Lego, but a cool aluminum iDrive-like twist knob below an LCD screen makes access to ancillary systems easy.

The strip of ersatz timber separating the upper and lower dash and the silver plastic surrounding the Armada's shifter are about as convincingly upmarket as $10 Prada sunglasses. Escaping the aesthetic affront presents its own set of challenges; access to the way back requires agility, persistence, experience and a ready supply of Shrek Band-Aids.

For the 2007 model year, Nissan upgraded the SUV's 300bhp 5.6-liter V8 to a more robust 315bhp (or 317, depending on which promotional materials you read). This launches the Black Pearl-sized vessel from no-wake to an ocean-going 60mph in about 7.5 seconds. Unlike the Tundra-based Sequoia, the Titan-based Armada is in no hurry to prove the point. The big Nissan's tip-in is leisurely, and the five-speed slushbox likes any gear as long as it's the one that delivers the best fuel economy.

Speaking of which, the Armada's V8 is touted as the world's most efficient 5.6-liter V8! AND the gigantic FlexFuel badges proclaim the truck's E85 ability. Yes, well, you'd have to be a well-heeled corn grower to put up with 25 percent to 30 percent less fuel efficiency than the Armada's "normal" 15mpg EPA combined cycle.

How Nissan made the Armada handle as well as the smaller XTerra amazes me. With nearly three tons of mass pushing at marginally adequate tires, the Armada rolls only slightly, hangs on, and never loses its composure. Broken pavement causes the front end to skip to the side, but control quickly returns.

Obviously, no one takes an Armada around a corner. But if you did, understeer rules the day. Still, you never feel as though the Nissan really WANTS to plow straight ahead into the nearest guard rail. The options list included speed-sensitive steering. The only change I felt was a gentle transition from finger-twirling light, to not-quite-a-zombie on center helmsmanship. To feel the road in an Armada means pulling over and getting out. Which, in a beast weighing 5675lbs, might take a while.

Off-road, the Armada reveals its true purpose: the school run. Dial the switch to 4×4 High, wait ‘til the light goes out and then… fuhgeddaboutit. The standard running boards snag everything taller than forest squirrels. Grinning slightly at the amused salesman when we got high centered at the Land Rover off-road demo course, I engaged 4×4 Low, felt a shimmy and a crunch. And then the body quivered as the Armada scraped its belly off the obstacle. Not exactly safari material.

Who cares? There are very few full-size SUVs that shouldn't be something else. For the most part, these days, they are. Only their ancestors still roam the earth, sucking gas, threatening to squish all those funny-looking CUVs and the, what do they call them? Cars. Still, if you're one of those people who doesn't know when to leave a party, the Armada is a solid choice. It's comfy, safe (at least for you), tows stuff and, uh, that's it.

Nissan Cube Review

By Jonny Lieberman

After spending a few days in Nissan's Cube, I was reminded of Los Angeles' historic Mar Vista Housing tract. Built in the 1940s by designer Gregory Ain, the development deployed basic shapes (squares and rectangles) to give the suburban spread a high degree of architectural sophistication. Of course, people considered these "flat roof" houses a commie plot; builders only erected 52 of the planned 100 homes. The Nissan Cube sells for $11k in Japan. In the same way as Mar Vista, the Cube offers a whole lot of chic for a little bit of green.

At first glance, all you see is a box. But the Cube is a subversive piece of sheetmetalistry. First of all, it's brilliantly asymmetrical. The rear hatch is in fact rounded glass on one corner, whereas the other holds the hinges. Second, the Cube rolls on four round wheels (surprise!). Yes, well, the circle motif playfully contrasts against the cubism. The grill, wheels, headlights and taillights are all actually circles on squares.

The design brings to mind the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry orders a "Vanilla Bullshit" at Starbucks and starts exclaiming, "Coffee and milk! Milk and coffee! What a great idea!" Sometimes you don't need a grand, flame-surfacing language that speaks (only) to art school deans. More to the point, an entire coffee shop full of hot moms emptied out into a parking lot to "ooh!" and "ahhh!" over the khaki-colored Cube. Let's see you pull that trick in a Bangled Bimmer.

This simple-yet-clever styling motif continues inside. That's right, the dials, seat pattern and even plastic molding on the glovebox are all circles on squares. Other than that, there isn't much to write home about. On a postcard.

Calling the Cube "Spartan" is like calling water wet. Yet there is much to like about the minimalist treatment. For instance, a column shifter leaves room for a bench seat. There's a hunk of plastic molding in back that stores an umbrella. And if playing drug runner is your thing, the Cube has more smuggling compartments than the Millennium Falcon. Handy cubbyholes abound, including two glove boxes. Most importantly, you can haul mucho stuff, especially with the back seats down and scooched forward.

A couple of points before I share my driving experiences…

Nissan was kind enough to lend me a JDM (Japanese Domestic Market) car. That means the steering wheel's on the wrong (right!) side. The Japanese juice box's 1.4-liter engine has as much chance of making it to the States as Ron Paul has of making it to the White House… with Mike Gravel as his running mate. An all new, US-bound Cube debuts at this year's Los Angeles Auto show. Figure on the Versa's 1.8-liter four-pot scrunched under the hood.

The JDM car packs about 90 horses and not a lot of torque (if you can translate Japanese, have it). You'd expect that confronting American traffic in a low-po Cube would be a terrifying experience for all concerned. ("Honey, did we just squish something?") Here's the thing: it's absolutely not. Even with the extra weight of the Cube's all wheel-drive components (more on that in a bit), the Nissan tips the scales at just 2400 pounds.

I'm guesstimating a zero to 60 time of, oh, I don't know, 15 seconds. The Cube's statistical sloth makes getting onto the freeway a theoretically dangerous exercise. But the funny thing about reality is that it's always disproving the most logical theories. The Cube's no rocket, but around town it felt fine. Quick, even. While 90 mph is all she wrote, passing people is possible. Instead of lightly drubbing the Cube's throttle, you just bury it.

Even better, once at speed, the Cube is wonderfully composed. I was shocked by its sporting agility; we're talking Honda Fit-like handling. Meanwhile, the high seating position makes you feel like one of the big boys.

As mentioned, our Cube featured AWD. More precisely, e-4WD, and it's not what you think. The engine never powers the rear wheels. Instead, Nissan fitted a small electric motor to one of the half-shafts. Stuck in some sloppy footing? Flip a switch and the alternator sends power back to the rear wheels; talk about traction on demand.

The final part of my endorsement equation is this: have you been to the pumps lately? Nissan made me promise to go easy on the Cube, as only five exist in the country, they don't have any spare parts and no one knows how to fix them. Regardless, the Cube returned an honest-to-goodness 40 mpg.

So, besides cost, brand cachet (but not cachet) and more power than you need (be honest), what are you giving up with the Cube? In a word, nothing.

Nissan GT-R Review

2009 Nissan GT-R



Nissan GT-R: World´s 1st Full Test - Inside Line Exclusive



By Stephan Wilkinson

The GT-R is the blind date everybody’s been telling you about for months: incredible body, second in her class at Harvard, fabulous conversationalist, star athlete. Then you meet her. Yes, she has obvious “assets,” but nobody mentioned the halitosis. She graduated with a B.A. in accounting. She’s a great conversationalist, but her voice sounds like run-flat tires with three-inch sidewalls running over a concrete-aggregate rumble and tar-strip slap. She's an athlete, but a grunting shot-putter, not a Sharapova. In short, the GT-R is SO not a supermodel.

I spent 1,450 miles inside a Nissan GT-R in early April, flying through the deserts of Nevada and central California. I didn't notch 193mph, the GT-R's top speed. But I (or you) could have done so with ease. I decided not to approach this limit to preserve my license. In fact, the Nissan coupe plants itself on the road better than any car I've ever driven.

Stretching the GT-R’s legs on an open Nevada two-lane road was so simple that my 28-year-old daughter could repeat the process a few minutes later while I lazed in the right seat. When we passed opposite-direction tandem tractor-trailers on these empty highways, it was as though the GT-R slipped by a Smart. With a Cd of .27 and just enough downforce in all the right places, aerodynamics are apparently a lot of what allows this car to go so fast so easily.

If there's anything to criticize about the GT-R's handling— I also spent an afternoon with the car lapping the mickey mouse Reno-Fernley Raceway— it's the steering. While the helm’s quick and precise, it’s strangely numb and electric-feeling. The Japanese still have a lot to learn from Porsche here, but the GT-R is ridiculously nimble for a two-tonner (with driver and gas).

Two of the car's most highly touted features baffle me, though. One is the endlessly configurable instrument display, called-up via the nav screen. Nissan readily admits that it “was inspired by videogames.” It’s not what you’d call useful– unless you're intent on studying steering-wheel deflection, slip angle, transmission-oil pressure and brake-pedal position while late-apexing an off-ramp. It's the geek equivalent of the complex chronographs of the 19th century: pocket watches that read out everything from the tides to your mistress's menstrual cycle.

The GT-R’s fiddly “launch mode” for maximum acceleration (meaning turbo spool-up) is also a curiosity. It will amuse those who haven't an ounce of mechanical sensibility who don't mind abusing machinery. Actual GT-R owners will use it a few times to amuse the neighbors, and then will realize that they're still making payments on the $70,000+ appliance they're brutalizing. Even Nissan told me to only use it "once or twice."

For me, the car's tires are the biggest turnoff. Quick! Name a single benefit to run-flats. They're noisy, expensive, difficult to repair and can only dismount with special machinery. I don't have a spare in my 911 either, since a fuel cell fills the trunk, but I use Ride-On to seal its tires permanently. (No, Ride-On has nothing in common with Slime or Fix-a-Flat.) The Bridgestones on the GT-R are so loud they negate the Bose sound system; a Costco Kenwood would have sufficed amid the din.

Obviously, this car's numbers– whether we're talking racetrack lap times, zero to sixty or MSRP– are stunning. We all know that GT-Rs are lapping the Nordschleife faster and faster, that they out-accelerate Porsche Turbos and ZO6s and cost $69,850 (plus “market adjustment fees…”). There's a lot to like about this car, but is it the ultimate, the Godzilla, the Nurburgring killa?

Who cares? Acquiring a supercar, rather than fantasizing about one, faces the buyer with a decision with vastly more to do with real-world attributes than with video games, bad movies and teen fetishes. (Admittedly, the last video game I played was Space Invaders.) It fascinated me that nobody in Nevada or California noticed the GT-R, other than carwash attendants, 14-year-olds with mullets and every parking valet in Vegas. The rest of the world walked on by, assuming they’d encountered a new Toyota Supra.

Seventeen years ago, the first Japanese supercar arrived in the States: the Acura NSX. Fabulous numbers, a half-price Ferrari, buff-book craziness, slavering car writers, rumored to be the benchmark for the McLaren F1, development work by Ayrton Senna… So where did the NSX go? Ultimately, it became the orthodontist's car, when the world went back to buying Porsches and real Ferraris. Care to take bets on what will happen to the GT-R?

Bottom line: the car world may have gone cuckoo for Coco Puffs over the GT-R but it’s ultimately a pointless, nerdy, twin-turbo, electronics-laden technological curiosity.

Mitsubishi Eclipse GT Review

2009 Mitsubishi Eclipse GT



By Robert Farago

It's been a while since I've driven a death car. My mind casts back to tail-happy 911's, centrifugal Corvettes, terrifying TVR's and flaming Ferraris. These days, very few car companies build cars that seduce you into serious speed, then blow up, fall apart, flip over and/or throw you into a solid object. I reckon I've survived enough motorized mayhem to know a death machine when I Ford GT one. So I was a little surprised when I turned at a four-way intersection, squeezed the gas and nearly drove the new Mitsubishi Eclipse GT into a parked car.

Torque steer. It's that squirrelly squirming sensation that tells you that a front-wheel-drive car's driven wheels are desperately scrabbling for grip. The Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is a torque steer poster child. Feed the Eclipse's 263hp engine some major revs and mid-course corrections are instantly out of the question– and that's WITH traction control. All you can do is saw away at the steering wheel, back off the gas and wait for the tires to grab enough tarmac to return you to normal programming.

The Eclipse's tendency to lose traction at the front end is not quite as bad as hydroplaning, but only because it doesn't last as long. And it's true: you can avoid the problem by babying the gas pedal. But here's the problem: an enthusiast can no more resist giving the Eclipse GT's go pedal a proper pasting than they can avoid thumbing through sleazy car mags at a drug store.

Equipped with 'Mitsubishi Innovative Variable timing and lift Electronic Control' (MIVEC), the Eclipse's 3.8-liter V6 powerplant pours on the power from the basement to the penthouse. At the same time, the GT's coffee-can exhaust emits a mid-range zizz that hardens into a determined wail as you enter MIVEC-ian hyperspace. The Eclipse GT's six has so much sonic character that you blip the throttle for the Hell of it, lower the windows before entering tunnels and hold onto gear changes just because you can.

You see my problem? The Eclipse's engine constantly begs for a bloody good thrashing. It gets worse. Floor the free-revving GT in second gear, or third. Once again, the steering wheel torques back. At that point, you're going at least 50mph– which is more than fast enough to make the sudden loss of directional stability a life-threatening experience. If you happen to be cornering at the time, it's worse squared. The Eclipse GT has both an incurable understeer addiction AND a weight problem. When this sucker starts a nose-first slide towards the scenery, well, it's gonna be a while before helm control is yours for the taking. Did I mention that the GT feels a bit skittish at highway speeds?

In short, the Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is the kind of car Prince Charles would have bought his ex-wife if she'd survived her Parisian jaunt that fateful August morning.

Mind you, the Eclipse would have been a far more a stylish way to go than Dodi's S-Class sedan. Mitsubishi's swoopy coupe is a glorious gallimaufry of design cues: a hint of Nissan 350Z, a touch of Lexus SC430, a dash of Audi TT, a reminiscence of Pontiac Grand Am. Put it all together and what have you got? God knows, but it ain't dull. The Eclipse GT's furiously funky shape is adorned with wikkid details, from a windshield so severely raked it could almost double as a coffee table, to a drilled aluminum gas cap (Audi again). Clock that wasp waist, bodacious butt, blistered arches and jewel-effect lenses. These Mitsubishi guys are sick.

The Eclipse's interior is also a stylish step up from generic Japanese. Little details entrance: baseball glove stitching on the shift knob, body-hugging racing seats, sculpted metal door pulls. The GT's [optional] nine-speaker, 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo– complete with trunk-mounted 10' subwoofer– tells you all you need to know about Mitsubishi's ability to tune in to the youth market. Now, will someone please tell carmakers that a digital display needn't look a digital watch?

And while you're at it, who's going to convince Mitsubishi to give the Eclipse GT all-wheel-drive? The company steadfastly maintains that the market doesn't want it. They report that just 3% of consumers who bought the last gen Eclipse signed-up for power to all four corners. And? Need we raise the thorny issue of mortality rates, lawsuits and the like? Or should we stick with the carrot, and point out that the GT is only a viscous coupling away from greatness?

I'm serious. If Mitsubishi could tame the Eclipse's torque steer, the car's fresh design, cracking engine, silken six speed gearbox, robust chassis, superb brakes and entirely reasonable sticker price would make it one of the best sports coupes of our time. As it is, the Eclipse scares me to death.

Mitsubishi Evo IX MR Review

By Andrew Comrie-Picard

There’s an industrial road outside Chicago that has more Mitsubishi Lancer Evolutions per square mile than anywhere but the factory in Mizushima, Japan. There’s the drag race shop with several 600+hp, carbon- paneled versions vying for space. There’s the tuner shop where literally dozens of Evos flock to dyno. And there’s the rally shop that is widely considered the finest American skunkworks for this type of car. And as I stand in that shop, my own flame-spitting Evo IV rally car sitting on the hoist behind me, I stare at a brand-new charcoal Evo IX MR – the even-higher-performance-spec version – that has only 70 miles on it. And the perfect impression of a tree trunk, molded into the passenger’s side.

The sight is sobering. I mean, I’ve been driving my own Evo on dirt and snow rally roads for years, at speeds regularly over 120mph, and I’ve never hit a tree like this poor schmuck did. But then I’ve been rallying for a long time and have enough stupid crashes on my permanent record to know better than continue down that path (and over the forest and into the tree). Fortunately, there’s another near-new Evo IX MR sitting outside, and the owner foolishly throws me the keys.

I’m not a boy racer. I’m not even a boy. But boy, the IX MR is quite a car. It’s not particularly elegant; the best you could say is that the fender flares, sharp nose, deep chin, and hard-edged wing make it handsome and sinewy. The interior is downright plain for a $35k sports sedan (OK – the Recaro seats are awesome). Unmodified, it actually sits a little too high on its wheels. Unless you know what it is, you’d probably think this bewinged extrovert is like your little brother: high on bluster but slow on the delivery.

But this is your little brother who becomes the school track star and steals your girlfriend. Specs never tell the whole story, but 286hp, AWD with an active center differential, huge Brembo brakes, and all-aluminum suspension arms make for a good opening paragraph. The story continues when you fire up the 2.0L intercooled turbo engine – in the IX for the first time with variable valve timing – and it settles into a contented purr. It’s not until you really get into the throttle that the thing takes off like a scalded cat, albeit a scalded cat with its claws dug about two feet into the pavement.

I can tell you with some authority that this is one of the five best handling cars available in North America. Certainly it is one of two for less than $35k, and it has four doors and a trunk to boot. It’s better than the Subaru WRX STi – tighter, better balanced, transitions faster, feels lighter. The Subaru actually has a better drive layout, with the engine mass lower and the transmission further back, but by sheer bloody-minded suspension engineering the Evo wins hands down.

Yes, the ride is harsh and the appointments spare. But the turn-in is astonishing – sneeze and you’ll change three lanes – and once you’re sliding, you can drift the car in fourth gear, tires smoking, the world coming at you through the side window, correcting with your fingertips. Wanna feel like a superhero? This is your fastest ticket.

Except physics is a hard mistress, and trees are hard objects. Even the Evo can’t give you more run-out room when you simply went in too fast. In fact, it sort of cheats you: it allows you to go so close to the edge – even over the edge – then gather it all up again, time after time. Except that last time when nothing – not your skill, not your pleas to the heavens, and not even the Evo – can save you from being an idiot.

Anyway, the IX MR is that kind of car: a machine that goes so bloody quick so bloody easily that thoughts of death are necessary to prevent its occurrence. And no wonder: the IX MR is an evolution of an earlier Lancer and, before that, the Galant VR4 of the early 1990s. The Evo is, essentially, a Japanese Porsche 911, constantly honed with one thing in mind: dominant performance for a given drive layout. It’s amazing that a company still struggling to find its place in the North American market can produce a single model that is so focused, desirable and damn near perfect that they hardly need to market it.

And so, after having driven perhaps a dozen Evos in anger over the last few years, there’s a new Evo IX RS – the even-lighter-weight version – sitting in my shop, taunting me, about to be built into my next rally car. So much for trying not to be an idiot.

Mitsubishi Galant Review

By Sajeev Mehta

This website has consistently and persistently lambasted The Big 2.5 for depending on fleet sales to keep the factories churning. As reported here and elsewhere, Detroit has finally responded to industry criticism that cranking-out sub-par transportation for fleet consumption drags down vehicle quality, resale value and image. They’ve sworn off rental car crack. Gradually, eventually, they’ll leave Alamo, Hertz, Avis, etc. behind and take their chances on the dealer’s lot. All of which makes room for… the Mitsubishi Galant!

The ninth gen Galant gets some new threads. The proportions aren’t bad, and its strong, chiseled shoulders meld into perfectly proportioned, smoked Altezza taillights. (Who knew that Malibu and sake mixed?) From the side, the Galant’s soaring beltline conforms to The Law of Unintended Aesthetic Consequences; the rear doors look like Lulu the Fat Lady’s thighs. Up front, the aesthetically challenged hood blister meets up with a finned grille, complete with shiny-happy chrome smile underneath. All in all, the Galant is handsome enough– to wear the rental car cloak of invisibility.

As befitting this erstwhile honor, the Galant's interior is as about as cool as drinking milk from a sports bottle. From its brittle switchgear to its rotary knobs soaked in molasses to its rubbery steering wheel, Mitsubishi's sedan-starlet does the near-impossible: falls to match GM's mediocre advancements in interior excellence. While the Mitsu's panel gaps are fingernail thin and the aluminum-effect trim livens-up the dour dollops of flat black, the cabin’s mix of jutting planes, bloated curves and cheap plastics make the Galant ready for the rental car return row, like, now.

Grab your luggage and another problem creeps up; the Galant's strut assists make closing the decklid a challenge for one hand, and unnecessary effort for two. The resonating "thonk" following said action is about as reassuring as a stand up comic moonlighting as a bereavement counselor. The Galant's lack of fold down rear seating is another solid miss.

That said, the rear accommodations are more than slightly salubrious. The fabrics are a pleasing blend of luxury, style and durability, wrapping the finest set of foam cushioning this side of an Olds 88 Royale Brougham. Who needs a folding park bench when the alternative is so much better for the back and the booty? The couch isn't just the Galant's best attribute; it’s class-leading mother-in-law kvetch protection.

The Galant’s standard 140-watt, six speaker, MP3-ready sound system also deserves special mention. Actually that's a lie. By itself, the beatbox is nothing special. Factor in its ability to overpower the Galant's 2.4-liter buzz box under the hood and it becomes an absolute lifesaver. The MIVEC-tuned four-pot motor makes a respectable 160hp @ 5500 revs, but clock the tachometer above 3500rpm and this mill is ready to rattle itself to pieces. Runs to redline are accompanied by an intake-wheez so strong you can feel the Galant begging for your right foot for mercy.

The Galant’s “Sportronic” automatic serves-up a quartet of cogs with wide-ass gear ratios; a holdover from a time when it was OK to keep a rock as a pet (don’t ask). The Galant's powertrain– and I use that term in its full ironic sense– is no match for the smooth operators available in baseline Camrys and Accords. Even worse, with 3439 pounds of sedan to tote from the airport to the meeting/Disneyworld and back, the Galant's wounded snail pace (zero to 60 in 8.9 very loud seconds) should come as no surprise– at least until you try to merge on the highway.

Curiously, the entry level Galant doesn’t offer ABS braking as standard; you have to upgrade to the ES or “Extra Stuff” model (I swear I’m not making that up) to get Electronic Brakeforce Distribution. At least the Galant has enough airbags to seduce the Stay Puft Man and a front and side five-star government safety rating.

Which is just as well. Although the Galant is about as close to being a rocket ship as a block of cement, it can, eventually, reach normal automotive speeds. Once there, drivers will discover that the Galant's steering, shifting and throttle response were originally extras in The Dead Hate the Living.

The harder you push the Galant, the dumber you feel for bothering. Before unloading SUV-levels of understeer, the Galant pitches under cornering load and dives prodigiously in panic stops. Thrifty drivers on a Budget will get no kicks remembering the Alamo on a twisty on ramp or, more likely, circling for a parking space in a hotel parking lot. At least the four corner disc brakes keep the "fun" in check without hesitation or complaint.

Years ago, the market decided Mitsubishi's bread-and-butter sedan couldn’t hold a spent glow stick to the Camcordima. The market is still right; the Galant deserves its place in rental car infamy. As you will someday learn.

Mitsubishi Outlander Review

By Sajeev Mehta

CUV’s are nothing more than oversized station wagons on stilts. If you think about it– and not many American motorists have– CUV’s don’t work like a truck OR handle like a car. I wouldn't say they’re the worst of both worlds, but others have. In fact, the modern CUV may just be a marketing-driven gimmick designed to take one last shot at emigrating gas guzzlers before they get down from their perch and do something really sensible, like buy a car. No wonder Mitsubishi’s website says the Outlander doesn’t like labels any more than I do.

“Stylish” certainly fits. The Outlander's sheetmetal is sports sedan crisp with just enough static lines and ground clearance to assure the macho-minded that “Outlander” isn't the ancient Scottish term for “mall rat.” The CUV’s front end translates the usual SUV design cues into a host of smooth textures, understated lighting pods and clean surface transitions. The rear follows suit with ample glass, logical lines and an integral diffuser in its snazzy rear valence. It’s all very chi-chi.

Thankfully, the Triple-Diamond Boys left the SUV genre’s hose-it-down heritage outside the doors. The Outlander offers a symphony of touchy-feely polymers, panel gap precision and Audi-esque minimalism. Clock the way the Outlander’s beat box integrates into the dashboard’s horizontal sweep. Seamless. Even the nasty stuff– like the imitation aluminum trim surrounding the motorcycle-chic gauge cluster– looks cool.

Tick the right boxes and the Outlander’s got the right box of tricks. The optional 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo (named after the Firebird Esprit-driving TV detective) has more than enough power to make your dental fillings shake and shiver. It’s a Sirius piece of kit. The sat nav system can store 1200 songs, keep track of your Bluetooth and guide you to your dentist. And you can order a drop-down DVD system to keep the kids amused.

Clearly, Mitsubishi decided to go down the high content route for their latest foray into Crossover County. Even the base Outlander’s luxurious velour-trimmed body huggers are a welcome surprise at this price point, providing all-over comfort for humans both large and small. While the second row slides forward, there’s only one failsafe way to avoid Amnesty International’s condemnation of the Outlander’s “compact jump seats”: opt for the cheaper two row model.

The Outlander’s trick flap-fold tailgate is its party piece. The gate’s flush-fitting lower half unfolds from the bumper for slide and schlep Home Despots and/or doubles as a picnic table for pee-wee football tailgaters. On paper, the Outlander has a class average cargo hole. In real life, the model’s chunky-hunky D-pillar makes it possible to fit big ass square pegs into a moderately sized square hole.

More proof of the Outlander’s value-oriented proposition lies underhood. The MIVEC-tuned 3.0-liter V6 puts out a respectable 220hp and 204 lb-feet of twist (albeit high atop its powerband). Hooked-up to a standard six-speed autobox, there’s plenty of poke and reasonable fuel efficiency for city commuting (20mpg) and highway cruising (27mpg).

Hang on. Peep the strut tower brace under the hood and [optional] magnesium shift paddles. Could the Outlander’s Lancer underpinnings and available full-time four-wheel drive indicate that we’ve rocked-up in a family-friendly EVO in crossover guise?

Nope. The Outlander’s powerplant has less low-end grunt than your grandmother's vintage Osterizer, while the steering is completely vague about the whole torque steer issue. Push it hard into a bend and the softly sprung dynamics serve up a major slathering of understeer on a supersized body roll. The 3500lb Outlander is tuned for touring duty and nothing more.

Much like the omnipresent road noise at highway speeds, the Outlander’s dynamic bits get old in a hurry. While Mitsubishi touts "rally inspired control and fun unheard of in a family vehicle," the rally involved must have been political and the fun in question has a lot more to do with scaring kids than thrilling adults. Any off-roading more ambitious than an unplowed driveway is equally off limits.

The Mitsubishi's ride strikes an ideal balance between road feel and comfort. As long as you drive responsibly, the chassis will iron out irregularities and crush potholes. Motorsport heritage aside, it’s obvious Mitsubishi put a strut brace under the hood to avoid family fatigue during your next road trip.

In fact, the Outlander is a modern day station wagon, with all the stylistic charms, family friendly gadgets and timeless comfort that implies (“Mommy! He hit me!”). Its dash of panache, impressive standard features, trick tailgate and under 25 large asking price make the Outlander an attractive value proposition. That is, after you buy into the need for a tall station wagon.

Mitsubishi Lancer Review

By Justin Berkowitz

In “The Blue-Eyed Salaryman,” American author Niall Murtagh charts his fourteen-year career inside Mitsubishi Japan. When Murtagh gets transferred to Osaka, he concludes that the Tokyo part of the company focuses on large visionary research projects, while Osaka demands practical applications. And there you have it: the dichotomy that accounts for Mitsubishi’s progress in the automotive arena. You have visionary products like the Evo with very little practical purpose, and dull products like the Outlander with very little vision. So where does the new Lancer fit?

Never mind the subtext, check out those lines! Designing a good-looking compact car ain’t easy nowadays. You’ve got to maximize interior space, accommodate an expanding complement of airbags and facilitate fuel efficiency (with aerodynamics that force sheetmetal shapes down the slippery slope towards suppository chic). Things can go horribly wrong; reference the Honda Civic sedan. Or the previous Lancer, which was as sexy as dental floss. This one the Mitsubishi design team nailed.

The Lancer’s proportions and details are spot on. The high beltline adds to the impression of size from the outside, yet allows occupants to feel surrounded and safe. The Lancer’s new front fascia copies Audi’s current pig snout and makes it work, flanking the orifice with a set of angry eyes headlights and bisecting the otherwise gaping maw with a suitably wide bumper. Mitsu ripped off the tail lamp design from the Alfa 156– a gorgeous machine that Americans never got the chance to ignore.

The new Lancer is not a stunning design per se– it’s more handsome than drop-dead gorgeous. But it is a stunning development for Mitsubishi. The Lancer is to Mitsubishi what the Altima was to Nissan five years ago: a radical reskin that instantly elevates a plain-Jane model from zero to hero. Unfortunately, the parallel continues inside.

Thanks to Mitsu’s PR paparazzi, the Lancer’s cabin looks decidedly avant-garde. The flacks focused on the steering wheel, perfect in both diameter and thickness (though littered with stereo buttons and Bluetooth phone controls). They highlighted the Lancer’s sport bike-inspired gauges. They flagged its slick stereo, neatly integrated into the dash with precise, Teutonic buttonology.

Off camera, the new Lancer’s interior does the time-warp again. It’s a generic Japanese mishmash fabricated with some of the worst automotive plastics inflicted on U.S. consumers since A Flock of Seagulls first crapped on Top 40 radio, with bulbous switches that feel like they were attached with thumb tacks. The seats are nicely supportive, but why Mitsu decided to support the mouse fur industry by covering the Lancer's chairs and roof with rodent pelts is both an aesthetic and ethical conundrum.

Driving the base model Lancer is an eye-opening experience, especially when you realize that (1) the Evo X will obviously be celestial and (2) THIS is what they started with?

The Lancer is just an awful little car to pilot, for sportster and commuter alike. In the pursuit of a compliant ride, Mitsu has fitted the base car with a suspension made out of Twinkies. Potholes send the car bucking in a fit of confusion. And then there’s body roll. Lots and lots of body roll. Quick turns? Out of the question. (Fast corners make you their bitch.) Within minutes of assuming command, my need for speed did recede. I gave up trying to do anything more than get from Point A to Point B in the space of a single day.

Yes, I know: the Lancer’s an economy car. But it could be the only car sold in America that can make an entry level Toyota Corolla or Hyundai Elantra seem like a sports sedan. And the Lancer only achieves 21/29 mpg. How frugal is that?

The Lancer’s all-new 2.0-liter engine is rated at 152 horses (at an unattainable 6000 rpm). I swear a quarter have bolted for greener pastures. A wide open throttle simply kicks the CVT's droning tone up a notch. This isn’t about being a boy-racer. It’s about needing a sign to apologize to drivers while attempting merges.

What really sucks the life out of the Lancer (and sucks in general): its continuously variable transmission. Unless you opt for the top-o-the-line GTS with fake shift points, the CVT is forever locked into penalty mode. It's no fun at all.

The new Lancer is a research project gone horribly wrong. On paper, it’s a superb vehicle: 150 horsepower, loads of safety features (seven airbags, including the now popular driver's knee airbag), gadget options galore and racy good looks. But it’s all show and no go.

With Mitsubishi’s American operations just climbing out of sea of red ink, it’s too bad the company forgot to benchmark the competitions' driving dynamics. The forthcoming take-no-prisoners Evo version will no doubt sort that out, but after sampling the base Lancer, I highly doubt Mitsubishi’s ability to rescue its American ambitions from the dustbin of history.

Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X Review

BMW 135i and Mitsubishi Lancer Evo X comparison



By Michael Karesh

Anyone who’s driven one of the first nine iterations of the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution (a.k.a. Evo) approaches the tenth fully expecting chest-flattening acceleration and spleen-rupturing cornering. Obviously, the Evo X’s engine and chassis are bound (and determined) to continue the model’s budget supercar-killer tradition. But there’s another less welcome Evo tradition: denture destroying suspension and a Gladware interior. Will the Evo X’s ride quality and interior materials once again conspire to kill the love for all but the masochists among us?

The Evo’s new X-terior has moved Mitsubishi’s compact sedan from the bargain basement to the penthouse suite. The X’s profile now strongly resembles the Acura TSX and Volvo S40. The new Evo’s snout sports a huge black inverted trapezoid-grille, fender vents, a rear wing and body kit. Thanks to the car’s more svelte shape, the macho mods don’t scream “teenage toy.” Of course, it helps that Audi has made the world safe for gargantuan grilles, and that overpriced body kits are now common on overpriced German machinery.

The old Evo’s interior was cheaper than a one-star Romanian hotel. The new Lancer’s interior is a bit more upmarket, but it’s still a third-rate romance, low rent [Buick] rendezvous. Mitsubishi would have been well-advised to replicate the Alcantara interior of the Prototype X concept. One nit an upholstery shop can’t fix: the semi-swoopy exterior yields a windshield base that stretches out like an African Savanna; it’s a bit alienating for a “driver’s car.” Well-bolstered Recaro seats compensate.

Like just about every car (and person) in recent years, the new Evo’s gained some weight. Yet unlike Subaru, Mitsubishi refused to forsake the World Rally Championship’s 2.0-liter rule in their rally car production variant. Two liters of displacement for a 3500lbs. car? That’s like playing croquet with a toothbrush, isn’t it?

Nope. The Evo’s four-pot may not deliver the Subaru STI’s seamless shove, but once the revs crest 4000 rpm, the Mitsu’s mini-mill pulls like an amphetamine-crazed tractor. We’re torquing 300 ft.-lbs. of twist. And the X’s engine revs so freely that getting into the pleasure zone is not a problem. And then, suddenly, 291 horsepower at 6500 rpm.

Thanks to premium-powered variable valve timing and turbo technology, boost lag is also not an issue– provided you keep the revs up. Otherwise, it’s a second of “what the?” followed by “Holy CRAP!” Missing–and missed: a sixth ratio in the GSR’s manual transmission. The Evo’s engine spins at nearly 3000 rpm at 60mph. An extra cog certainly would have helped boost the mpgs from a never-caned 16/22, in case anyone’s wondering.

The Evo’s strangely-hyphenated, driver-adjustable Super All Wheel-Control deploys a pair of trick, electronically-controlled differentials. Minus the jargon-laden physics lessons and references to the anti-HAL handling nanny (I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid you can’t not do that), the nose-heavy compact feels balanced, agile, controllable, poised, planted, secure, balletic and ballistic.

Like any great driver’s car, the Evo X makes you a better driver than you are without taking you out of the equation (in every sense of the phrase). Point the Evo where you want it to go, and it goes there confidently, smoothly and quickly. The Evo X’s steering isn’t as quick and sharp as before, but compared to just about any other sedan you can buy— including (especially?) BMW’s new M3— it offers a highly responsive, entirely intimate helm.

There’s only one flaw: a tug at the wheel when digging into the throttle on turn exits. Never mind. Whether going, turning, and stopping, the new Evo has an eager, playful nature that’s all-too-uncommon in the post-Lexus age. Mitsubishi’s supercar remains a blast to drive, even in typical suburban driving. At the same time, it feels much more polished and controllable than before. You don’t have to push it hard to enjoy it. And if you do push it hard, you’ll enjoy it even more.

With the old Evo, potential buyers who could see past the crap interior were put off by its rock-hard ride. Here, as elsewhere, the new Evo ups its game without losing its character. No doubt the new lightweight 18” wheels and improved rubber– plenty pricey and not anywhere near immortal asymmetrical Yokohama ADVANS– have helped matters. The Evo’s no more a Lexus than you are, but it’s not a go-kart, either. Some BMWs are worse (128i anyone?).

The new Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X has eliminated the previous car’s faults without killing the joy. The punishment is gone; the fun remains. Unfortunately, there is a new and major downside: price. The Evo’s hardware is a steal for $35,600. That’s premium compact territory– without a premium compact interior or a premium compact brand. Those who can’t see themselves spending thirty-five large for a mainstream extreme machine, or simply don’t have a BMW-sized budget, might be happier in the upcoming Lancer Ralliart. Or not.

MINI Cooper S Review

By Jonny Lieberman

“It handles like a go-cart.” For the past five-years I’ve taken this description of the BMW’s born-again clown car’s dynamics at face value. Living in Los Angeles, I’ve seen more of these faux-Brits than Carnaby Streeters ever did. And I’ve often wondered if the MINI was small and extraordinarily nimble like its forbearer, or just plain small. Other than sipping cheap wine next to the trio of stunt cars used in the third Austin Powers movie, I’d never had a chance to get up close and personal with a MINI. More importantly, I’d never put the British-built roadster’s handling to the test– until this week, when RF charged me with the task of assessing the “old” new MINI before the “new” new MINI arrives stateside.

Deconstructing a design icon is tricky at best. At the risk of alienating the faithful, I’ll say this much: the new car is nearly twice as large as the original and violates designer Alec Issigonis’s basic tenet (80% of the vehicle is dedicated to passengers, the remaining 20% is for mechanicals and luggage). Other than that, I think the new MINI looks like a toddler’s high top sneaker. Oh, and I love the J Mays’ cribbed headlights and the fact that the rear is wider than the front. So, um, moving on.

Once inside, I felt an overwhelming urge to pop a Prozac. Call me a frumpy, but I could barely cope with the unrelenting designer-ness of the thing. The cabin is awash in chrome, plastic that looks like chrome, plastic that looks like plastic and twinkling glass. Our tester came with the Cockpit Chrono Pack, which is even more ADD-inducing than the default set-up. MINI’s speedometer moves to the top of the wheel (next to the tach) leaving the space for oil, fuel and temperature readouts (where's the boost gauge?). Although the MINI is billed as pint-sized luxury, I reckon the point of luxury (in any amount) is to relax. The Cooper’s innards almost induced seizures. Moving on.

The MINI Cooper S is loaded to the gills with go-faster bits: oxymoronic performance run-flat tires, 17” inch aluminum wheels, McPherson struts (front), a multi-link suspension (rear), equal-length drive shafts and a supercharger. The blower bangs out 168 horses for just 2678 pounds of, um, style. A ludicrously tall first gear (4.455) and the inherent FWD dragster drawbacks means it takes nearly seven seconds for the MINI to get from rest to 60mph. This stat wasn’t all that bad back in 2001. In 2006, the similarly priced Mazda Speed3 does the deed a full second faster. The MINI’s not slow, but it’s not a whole lot of fun to flog the transverse-mounted 1.6-liter four in a straight line.

I’ve never been a big fan of any BMW cog-swapping solution; in the MINI’s manual, the good people of Bavaria don’t disappoint my sense of disappointment. First of all, the MINI’s gearbox is a long-throw shifter. Such a device might have seemed appropriate back when the Sixties were swung, but today it just feels cheap and clumsy. The supercharger’s horsepower-sucking reality means that the second you lift your foot from the gas to shift, the engine loses 1500rpm. So even when you get the gear you think you wanted, it’s not the gear you actually need. Try as I might to whip this little whip, my plans were foiled first by the engine, and then by the gears.

I’ve been driving go-carts quite a bit lately, so I feel qualified to judge the MINI’s similarity to same. After caning the MINI through California hill and dale, I can proclaim here and now that the MINI Cooper S is indeed the world’s fattest go-cart. The initial turn-in is awesome: tight, accurate and eager. Right until the apex of a turn, the MINI lives up to the hype, steering and responding with the kind of rapid fire, laser-guided confidence that makes motorized dinner trays such a kick in the ass. From the turning point on, the go-cart analogy drives straight into the metaphorical tire wall.

Lest we forget, go-carts are rear wheel-driver machines. After you finish the turn, you plant your foot and power your way home. The MINI is front wheel-drive. Assuming you’re lucky enough to find 4000rpm and summon 162 foot-pounds of torque, flooring it out of a corner creates a nightmarish mix of understeer plowing and angry steering. I tried the same trick with the traction control off– and wondered if my insurance premiums were up to date. While cute, the MINI is not a track-day option.

Though not yet on our shores, BMW is embiggening the newish “MINI” and ditching the blower for a turbo. Let’s just hope the company’s chassismeisters have sorted the MINI’s on-the-limit handing. If so, the British go-cart will fully deserve the pistonhead plaudits it already receives.

MINI Cooper S (R56) Review

By Jay Shoemaker


News flash! The 2007 MINI looks like the 2006 MINI. As there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the “old” model, BMW’s decision to leave things well enough alone shows welcome restraint. Well, almost. BMW’s added two extra inches to the new MINI– and we all know how meaningful two extra inches can be for guys (legroom!). But you’d be hard pressed to see any exterior effects– good or bad. So is it still all systems go for MINI’s V2 rocket, or does the new model (codenamed R56) prove that more is less?

Truth to tell, I was feeling a bit blah about my MINI road test. But the moment The Man handed me the key to a 2007 MINI Cooper S, I perked up. The ignition device is now a circular pad with a stubby base; my first inclination was to open a channel to Starfleet and ask Scotty to beam me up. Once inside, I was instructed to stash the pad and press the button. Keyless ignition in a car the size of a 7-Series escape pod? Who’d a thunk it?

And who knew the Bavarians had a sense of humor? More charitably, the MINI’s interior looks like it was created by a grove of unsupervised Apple Computer designers. (It’s only a matter of time before the MINI’s key includes an I-Pod.) The fuel gauge is now a circular ring of digital lights on the speedometer pod, with a “range to empty” display on the information section of the tachometer pod, in script familiar to BMW owners (if not MS Word users).

Drivers are confronted by a wide range of organic looking toggles and indentures, operating all manner of controls. Who cares how it all works? And who cares that not all the materials are above average? Most are, and when you encounter the odd flimsy piece, the clever design more than compensates. Even the casual visitor instantly appreciates that fact that the BMW’s British box is a no-holds-barred style statement, not an Audi.

To that end, buyers can personalize their MINI Cooper S in a trillion ways, right down to checkered flag side mirror caps ($130) and a “Let’s Motor” license plate holder ($35). What’s more, the MINI is the only car you can customize without completely destroying its resale value. My favorite new interior color is the Tuscan beige; I love the look but could live without the pretentious name.

The biggest change from old MINI to new: a Peugeot-sourced, BMW-fettled, 1.6-liter turbo four. The new engine’s a more powerful lump than the old supercharged Brazilian mill (172 horsepower and 177 pound feet of torque vs. 168/162). As a result, the zero to 60 time is slightly quicker (6.7 versus 7.2 seconds) with better fuel economy (29/36).

While the new MINI has a wider (i.e. more useful) power band and will now cruise at triple digits without threatening to rattle itself to pieces, it doesn’t feel quite as eager out of the blocks as the old car. There’s a nasty lag between depressing the go pedal and the onset of acceleration. It feels… dumbed down. Until, that is, you press the Sport button.

In many sports cars, even some of the more expensive models, activating the Sport button creates little more than a psychological effect. In the new MINI, it’s undeniably transformative. In an instant, both the MINI Cooper’s electric steering system and its fly-by-wire throttle tighten up. Like a dull pencil thrust into an electric sharpener, the MINI is suddenly ready to draw the finest of racing lines.

Compared to the corner carving capabilities of the previous version, the new MINI Cooper S in Sport mode feels about 20% more wonderfully, joyously flickable. It still stays flat and level through vicious corners. It still turns in with all the eagerness of a toddler’s mother. But the added layer of maturity and refinement in the drivetrain and the additional feel through the helm build significantly more confidence into the system.

Enough confidence, in fact, to imperil the sporting driver’s license– and embolden him or her to switch off the MINI Cooper S’ DSC stability control. And yet, even without considering the necessity of the optional limited slip differential, there’s something important missing from the re-mix: an aggressive exhaust note.

For reasons most probably related to Europe’s drive-by noise regulations, the MINI Cooper S’ aural burble, zizz and growl are gone. On one hand, the relative silence (and proper autobox option) make the MINI Cooper S a more refined and therefore viable daily driver. On the other, the muted motor removes much of the reason for driving the thing as it wants to be driven. It's a major miscalculation mandating post-purchase mechanical surgery.

Otherwise, the MINI Cooper S is good to go. Literally.